


Defences

by Fyre



Series: A Little Kindness [8]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Slow Show - mia_ugly
Genre: Alternative Perspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:48:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22681237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: Avery’s skin was still humming.It had shocked him, the depth of his outrage.From the moment they stepped off the red carpet, it had continued to bubble. Of course, no one could tell. No one could ever really tell. He was a damned good actor after all. Smiles and waves and kisses to cheeks. Lovely Avery Fell, nicest man you’ll ever meet.
Series: A Little Kindness [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1628107
Comments: 62
Kudos: 177
Collections: Slow Show Metaverse





	Defences

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mia_ugly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mia_ugly/gifts).



> I. am. weak.

Avery’s skin was still humming.

It had shocked him, the depth of his outrage.

From the moment they stepped off the red carpet, it had continued to bubble. Of course, no one could tell. No one could ever really tell. He _was_ a damned good actor after all. Smiles and waves and kisses to cheeks. Lovely Avery Fell, nicest man you’ll ever meet.

He had never wanted to reach out and shove someone down so hard.

 _Has it been hard to give up your ‘bad boy’ lifestyle? You’ve had some run-ins with the law_.

Anthony hadn’t set a foot wrong in _years_. More than a decade even. And even if he did, what business was it of theirs to go dredging up the hardest and most painful time of anyone’s life on a night when he was meant to be celebrating? The absolute bastards couldn’t let him enjoy himself, not once, and the most Avery could do was take him by the arm and get him out of their blast radius.

The poor man’s arm was rigid under his, the tension pulsing in every inch of him, and so Avery did what he always did for want of something more helpful to do: he babbled. Invectives against reporters and outrage and anything to distract him from the hooks digging into Crowley’s past.

And belatedly noticed he was still holding Crowley’s arm, as if he had the right, as if that wouldn’t give the damned paparazzi fodder for their filthy little rags. He dropped his arm quickly, but – lest his gesture be mistaken for distaste – added a compliment for good measure. The dear man needed words of kindness to drown out the poison of the question.

Still, it wasn’t enough for Crowley to feel entirely at ease.

He refused champagne, which was never a good sign. More often than not, he’d indulge in a single glass for appearance’s sake, but with his past being raked up so suddenly, no wonder.

Avery teased as much as he dared, drawing some smaller-than-usual smirks and smiles, but the damage had been done. Even when they were escorted to their seats, Crowley’s body was taut and his habitual saunter had turned into a prowl that Avery had over ever seen in animals in cages. Controlled, contained, but the distress tangible in every step. 

Lord, it was painful seeing him so.

“Thank heavens, we’re sitting together,” he murmured, glancing at him, wondering what on earth he could do to make things better, to make them _right_. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah.” Crowley collapsed like an airer folded into a cupboard, limbs criss-crossing and arms defensively overlapping. “M’fine.”

He could not be less fine if he tried. His fingers drummed on his arms, his foot tapped, and if anything, it was getting worse. Well… more noticeable, certainly, and that was the last thing Crowley needed.

Avery leaned a little closer and patted his arm gently. Contact helped, he’d noticed before, like a percussionist touching their instrument to quiet the vibrations. “Stop being twitchy,” he said softly, “You’ll get me started.”

If he’d really been fine, Crowley would have nipped back. That was the way of it. A bit of teasing, a bit of laughter. The fact he didn’t only solidified Avery’s concern. Those bright-dark eyes of his darted away and he ducked his head as if ashamed. _Oh, my dear, you have nothing to be ashamed of._

“Sorry.” Oh, that was so much worse. “You know how I get–”

“I do.” Avery interrupted before he could descend any further down that rabbit-hole and squeezed his shoulder at once, a silent anchor against the cruel tides. Crowley trembled, giving him such a startled, lost look that he only wished there was more he could do. All he had were his words. “You needn’t worry, though.” He smiled, all his good will and affectionate poured into it. “You’re doing marvellously.”

Crowley blinked hard at him, his mouth twitching in something too sharp and painful to be called a smile. He managed a weak nod, then looked away as the lights dimmer further and the stage was illuminated.

By the second-hand light, Avery watched him for a moment longer, then gently drew his hand away.

The ceremony went as such ceremonies do: celebrations of the victors and the polite smiles and applause of those going away empty-handed.

Warlock didn’t win, but quite frankly, Avery couldn’t care less when all he was aware of was the wire-taut man clenched in the seat beside him. Crowley laughed when he was meant to. Smiled when he was meant to. Did everything when he was meant to. As he had been doing for months and years now, and yet they _still_ reduced him to snapping at shadows. He was _good_ at hiding it, but not quite good enough.

The trouble was Avery knew him well enough to see the cracks in the façade, the delicate hairlines breaks, the slightly-too-brittle shrillness. He wasn’t fine. Hours of sitting, in the dark, surrounded by his peers, vibrating gently, a meditation bowl thrumming steadily with the constant stroke of self-awareness, and he certainly wasn’t fine.

And on top of everything else, they were meant to go to a party afterwards. The studio liked to display their talent. All the little birds in a shiny cage, surrounded by flashing bulbs, entertaining the public with their wild parties.

They were the leads in the show. They were meant to show face.

Avery drove them there, grateful that he had the chance to give Crowley a respite from prying eyes, but the moment they pulled up outside the Plaza, they looked at one another, the flickering lights and flashbulbs casting strange patterns on their skin.

And when Crowley looked out through the window, Avery could see the line of muscle clench so tightly in his jaw, the way his shoulders tensed as if anticipating the blow, those long, thin hands of his curled in knots.

No. Crowley was _not_ going in there. Not tonight. Not now. Not when he clearly needed to be somewhere that he won’t be displayed, somewhere where he won’t have to be afraid.

“Would you rather–” Avery began, then hesitated. “I don’t know, come back to mine?”

The effect was immediate, like a man cut down from a noose. “Thank God, yes. _Yes_.”

The cracked-glass sharpness of his voice could easily slice a man’s heart to ribbons. 

And so they went back to the joyless chilly place that Gabriel had arranged for him. Sometimes, it felt more like a hotel than somewhere he could call home, too polished and sharp-edged and not him. But then sometimes, with the right company, he almost liked it.

He shed his coat as soon as they got in and headed, at once, to the bar. After that night, after that wretched rude reporter, they both deserved a drink.

“What would you like to drink?” he asked as he rolled his sleeves up. “Wine? Something stronger?” He glanced over at Crowley, perched on the edge of the couch, still taut as a bow. _Oh, sweetheart, not here. Not with me. Rest easy. I’ll take care of you._ “I have that Yoichi Single Malt you seemed to enjoy before.”

“Whatever you want, angel?” The smile that accompanied the words was a fragile thing.

“Hmm.” Avery searched through the bottles, until he spotted a drink they had both enjoyed a few weeks earlier. “Malbec?”

“Uh– yeah. Sure.”

Avery poured them both a glass, then approached the couch. The tells were still there, the rigidity, the tension, the way Crowley met-and-unmet his eyes. He needed a moment, a little time to gather himself, so Avery handed him the glass.

“I’ll just ring up Tracy, see how her mum made out. She’ll be up already, I think,” he said, then caught Crowley’s shoulder again, the anchor, the reminder. Squeezed and felt the tremor beneath his palm. “Won’t be a minute.”

“Tell her hi from me,” Crowley called after him, loving soul that he is.

Avery sank down to the sit on the edge of the bed. He couldn’t begin to imagine how it must hurt, dancing on blades like Crowley did, every time they attended a press event or award show or gala, never knowing when one might slip in and cut to the core. The best he could do was be there to cushion the blow and patch the wound.

He called up Tracy too, because two birds and all that.

“She’s fine,” Tracy said before he even asked. “Already grumbling that they made her get up and go to the loo on her own. Kept telling them off for making her pee in a cardboard hat. Didn’t want them messing about with her widdle, she said. Unnatural and all that.”

He couldn’t help laughing at the image. Tracy’s tiny ferocious mother would tear strips out of anyone. “Everything went smoothly, then?”

“Mm.” She stifled a yawn. “I’ll pop back in this afternoon. She sent me out with a shopping list. Where the hell am I meant to get Opal Fruits these days?”

“Same place you can get Marathons, I think,” he replied with a crooked smile.

“Oh, shush,” she laughed. “How were the awards? Win anything nice?”

“Not tonight, no. I _did_ see a couple of your fancy boys though.”

“Ooh!” When Tracy lit up, you could hear it thousands of miles away. “Was my Trev there? Did you give him my number yet?”

Avery smiled. “Your Trev?”

“Well, not your type, is he?” She chuckled. “Come on, don’t keep me in suspense.”

“Only when he was on the stage.” Avery sighed sadly. “I’m a terrible wing-man.”

“I’ll say. No Gabriel Byrne in the 90s, no Antonio Banderas in the 2000s. Honestly, you could’ve got me _someone_.”

He smiled. Reliable old Tracy. “My dear, if I can’t flirt for myself, how on earth am I meant to flirt for _you_?”

“Mm. Fair point.” She yawned again. “What are you up to anyway? Shouldn’t you be at a party or something?”

He hesitated, glancing at the door. “We slipped away,” he said quietly. “I– the press were being rather… difficult.”

“Anthony?”

“Mm.”

“Ah.” She clicked her tongue. “One day, someone’s going to light a fire under them and see how they like it. You get back to him. Take care of him, won’t you?”

“You know I always do.”

“Yeah,” her tone softened. “I know. Give him my love, eh?”

“Always.”

When he returned to the living room, Crowley had at least subsided a bit on the couch. Not perched on the edge as if he was about to bolt for the door, but he’d barely even touched his glass. Well, he always did like company when the wine was poured, so Avery settled himself into the chair opposite and together, they made a game start of working through the bottle.

Little by little, over the course of two bottles, he could see the tension gradually seeping out of Crowley’s body. He had teased the man often enough about his inability to sit like a normal human being. With a little wine in him, Crowley’s body seemed to turn into some kind of peculiar liquid form, spilled over the surface of the couch, one leg flung over the back, an arm draped over the side, glass dangling from his fingers like the clapper of a bell.

As much as he hated to admit, Avery loved to see him like that: relaxed, calm, the constant buzz of him calmed to a gentler hum. It happened so rarely, definitely not on set and never when they were at big events. It was as if the sharp edges, the fear and dread, were put aside. His sharp grins turned into smaller smiles that were somehow even warmer and brighter.

It was more precious and somehow, impossibly, he became even more lovely.

Those moments were wonderful, but they were also the best and worst kind of torture.

Crowley’s softer, unguarded, open expression was like a cannonball through Avery’s defences. In those moments, Avery felt his old, worn heart flare, like a breath to an ember, kindling a glow and a warmth he had long thought impossible.

And sometimes when he looked across at Avery with those dark-bright eyes, sometimes when he licked a splash of wine from his lips, Avery found himself wondering what might – would – could happen if he crossed the space between them and caught the texture of that smile against his own.

And he mustn’t. He never could. It would– everything would fall apart. He had so few friends he can trust the way he trusts Anthony and the thought of losing him over something so stupid…

It didn’t help when those thoughts roared to the surface as he drank Crowley in as quickly as the wine. It didn’t help knowing Crowley was still dancing on that knife-edge of comfortable. It really didn’t help knowing they’d both be heading off in different directions come morning and wouldn’t see each other for God only knew how long.

God, he wanted to kiss away the sorrow and doubt curved around Crowley’s mouth and eyes. To take his face between his hands and tell him he was worth more than he believed. But if he did, if he even started to whisper of it, the truth would come crashing in, the wave returning to shore, and dashing them to pieces on the rocks.

And Crowley was making things so much harder, rambling on happily about dolphin brains of all things. How on earth had they ended up on that tangent? Avery couldn’t recall. Fish had come into it somewhere, though he was fairly sure gorillas had too. Honestly, if people ever asked them what they talked about, not a soul alive would believe them.

He smiled vaguely, trying to think of something helpful to add, but – like a cold wind from the sea – something changed before he could find anything. What? He didn’t know, but Crowley staggered to his feet, wobbling about like a new born woss-name. The tall things. With the legs. And the spots.

“Better head out,” he said, tottering all over the place. “Better– yeah, s’late.”

It was, but… but…

But they won’t see each other for God knows how long and would it be so terrible to stay?

“Are you” – Avery sat up a bit straighter – “certain? You’re staying downtown, aren’t you?”

“It’s fine,” Crowley said, groping at… at those rather neat trousers. How on _earth_ had he slithered his way into them?

And more importantly, what on earth was he doing? It was late and he clearly _wasn’t_ fine.

“Not a problem,” Crowley insisted, thumbing at his phone.

 _Invite him_. The thought was bashing around inside his head. _Invite him to stay. The guest room. It’s there. It doesn’t have to be… inappropriate. It doesn’t have to be anything. It would just be… better. Knowing he was here and safe and not… not out there, alone, picking at the shards of himself._

Strange that the words came out more like, “As long as you’re… sure.”

 _Just_ ask _him, you coward_.

And another voice whispered, a darker, uglier voice, _ask him and watch for the papers in the morning. The tawdry affair. Speculation. Gossip. It won’t matter that you’re in different rooms. All that would matter is him walking out your door in the morning._

Crowley didn’t even look at him, still fumbling with his phone and that hot little ember heart burned a little hotter. Letting him go away, all in bits, wasn’t– he _couldn’t_ let them part on terms like that. Not not-knowing. Not being sure that Crowley would be all right.

He got up, brushing at his trousers. “I’ll see you tomorrow, though?” Or would it be today? It really was very late.

Crowley shrugged. “I dunno. I’ve got a pretty early flight.” There was a twitch to his lips that was almost convincing. “Too early for the likes of you.”

Avery’s heart twisted. “I’m a very early riser,” he offered. _Let me be there. Let’s have breakfast. Let me know you are all right before you go, darling._

Crowley laughed, too bright. “Don’t even start. It was like pulling teeth in Belfast to get you there for call-time.”

It had been, yes. Mostly, because they had sat up half the night, talking and drinking and laughing. Not like now. Well, not altogether. Drinking and talking, yes, but no laughter. None to speak of. And the lack of it ached.

“Those were some… late nights,” he murmured. “I was still recovering.”

Crowley finally looked at him, bright and brittle, fragile without his glasses but trying so hard not to pretend otherwise. “All right then,” he said and he almost sounded like himself. Almost. “I believe you.” His mouth curled. “Ring me when you’re back in London. If you like.”

 _Oh, I like. I_ like.

“All right.” What else could he say? It’s not as if he could drop to his knees there and then, press his brow to Crowley’s belly, implore him to stay and let Avery hold him and tell him just how good he is and how much he deserves to be–

To be…

He bit down hard on the inside of his lip to keep the words in. Close the door, turn the key. Simple. He’d done it dozens of times before.

Crowley nodded, gazing at him, then turned and wobbled his way out into the street to wait for the cab. Avery closed the door. Turned the key.

It was as simple as that. It was.


End file.
